Dark Humour

 When COVID first hit, people started panicking understandably about health, risk, and what it means to live with uncertainty.

I just... added it to the list.

Because when you’ve been living with a rare brain disease, weird symptoms, and a morning routine that involves 42 tablets and a contraption that looks like a pepper grinder but for medication, uncertainty is kind of the vibe already.

That said, I had one big extra fear:
“WHAT IF I GET COVID?”
(And then: Wait, what if I already have it and it just hasn’t made its dramatic entrance yet?)

Cue spirals, hand sanitiser addiction, and me Googling ‘can brain fog get foggier?’.

To cope, I did what I always do when things get overwhelming:
I made jokes. A lot of them.

Not to make anyone feel weird or uncomfortable just to take the edge off. For me. And sometimes, for other people who aren’t quite sure what to say when I casually drop that I live with a neurological condition that has no cure, can cause speech loss, and sometimes makes me nap like I’m 400 years old.

Turns out, humour is a brilliant softener.
It bridges the space between “this is hard” and “I’m still here.”
Like:

• “The only thing more complicated than my immune system is my skincare routine.

It’s not about pretending it’s all fine.
It’s about letting a little light in, even on the hard days.
Because living with a condition that already has layers of isolation built in and then experiencing a global lockdown on top of that gets heavy. And laughter, for me, is a pressure release valve that doesn’t need explaining.

COVID made the world feel a little more fragile. It made everyone aware of their bodies in new ways. For those of us who already live that way, it just amplified the stakes.

And that even in the weirdness, especially in the weirdness there is room for joy. For warmth. For humour. For a really bad joke that makes someone smile when they least expect it.

So yes, I’ve got a brain disease. Yes, I'm living through a global pandemic with it.
And yes, I’m still cracking one-liners that even I sometimes regret mid-sentence.

But it helps.
And if it helps someone else feel a little less alone, that’s a win.